Jason Lewis: Empire Under Siege

At the end of the street, they turned left. Leaving behind the bustling market street, they began a gradual climb.

“Where do you think he’s taking us?” said Conlan. He had expected them to head straight for the legionary armourers’ works, but they were heading in the opposite direction.

“Reckon we’re going to Bezel square.” Jonas took a huge bite from his apple. “Looks like you’re going to get something pretty special.”

“Bezel square?” Conlan had walked through it once, he was sure, but it was in a part of Adarna that he did not know well. “The one with the big fountain?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Dolphins and a mermaid. There’s a couple of posh armourers at one end.”

Conlan shivered. He had always mocked the officers who wore elaborate, often intricately worked and inlaid armour. General Martius, he remembered, had worn simple and practical armour at Sothlind, and Conlan admired him for it.

“What do you think to a pair of prancing ponies?” Jonas clapped Conlan on the shoulder. “Or perhaps you could have a gorgon’s head on your breastplate?”

“That’s enough now,” Conlan growled, wondering how he would ever live it down in the legion house.

As they marched up the inclined street, it began to get busier. Proctor Villius, as if realising for the first time that he was accompanied, slowed his pace and dropped back to join Conlan and Jonas.

“Have you ever seen active duty, Proctor?” Jonas asked in a matter of fact tone.

“Jonas.” Conlan flashed a disapproving look. Villius himself might not be a senior officer, but a man with the rank of proctor spoke with the delegated authority of the general he served. He may not be worthy of respect as a soldier, but his position was sacrosanct — many men had risen to greatness having been sponsored into such positions.

Villius gave no indication of offence, his eyes peering into the middle distance. “I was two years in the Twenty-second. Posted to the Farisian border,” he said, voice so soft it was barely audible.

Jonas frowned in disappointment and Conlan could not help but smile at his friend’s discomfort. Expecting to be able to poke fun at the young proctor, Jonas had instead revealed that the man was a veteran. The borderlands with Farisia were renowned as a difficult posting, with the sandmen a constant threat as they raided the more prosperous and productive lands of the Adarnan Empire.

The street grew busier as they climbed, and as they reached the top, which opened onto a small square with an old war memorial at its centre, they heard scattered shouting and jeers originating from a small crowd that had gathered around the memorial.

Villius slowed his pace to a crawl. “We had best be careful, gentlemen. There have been rumours of dissent in the capital. Not everyone loves the legions… or the Emperor.” As he spoke, he rested his right hand on his sword pommel, subtly loosening the weapon in its scabbard. “We have to get through to the other side — Bezel square lies about a hundred metres down the road.”

Jonas nudged Conlan in the ribs. “What did I tell you?” he whispered. “Bezel square!”

Conlan loosened his own sword as they moved through the crowd. There was a strange atmosphere in the square that set his nerves on edge. One moment fervent, the next dismissive. It felt as if the crowd was at odds with itself, an argument ebbing and flowing through it.

“I tell you they have come!” someone shouted. “They have come amongst us and they are angry!”

A man, dressed in dirty brown tunic and leggings, jumped up to wrap an arm around the memorial, his feet on the plinth below, raising him head and shoulders above the throng. He scanned the crowd, his footing precarious as his head flicked left and right. He had a short dark beard and hair, which although unkempt and dishevelled had clearly once been neatly trimmed. “I can tell you this because I saw it,” the man said, his eyes unnaturally wide, the whites clearly visible. “I was there, at the battle of Sothlind when they came to Earth.”

“Codswallop!” shouted a man from the crowd, “you’re off your head, you are.”

“I do not lie to you,” said the man with the wild eyes, raising an arm and pointing at the heckler. “I was there and I saw it with my own eyes. Lady Syke and Lord Toruss — I saw them with my own eyes.”

“Bah!” The heckler, an old man with a bald pate and straggly white hair, waved his arm dismissively and turned to leave. As he did so, Conlan noticed a legion tattoo on his bicep. He disappeared back into the crowd, many people giving him disapproving looks as he did.

“See!” shouted the man on the plinth. “See how the non-believer cannot stand in the face of reason! I, Marek Tyll, have seen the gods. I have seen the great Lord Terran with my own eyes, and I tell you now, he is the image of wrath and glory personified. He saved us from the barbarian horde. On the field of Sothlind, he saved us.”

There were gasps from the crowd. Some looked angry, but many seemed to Conlan to be enamoured of Marek Tyll. He has a way of speaking , Conlan thought as he gradually inched his way through the crowd behind Villius. There is something in the cadence of his voice, the way he gestures. It’s like an enchantment . Marek Tyll knew of the visitors at Sothlind, he too had seen the bear, bull and hawk along with the others as they danced their way through the horde.

Villius stopped and turned to Conlan and Jonas with anger in his eyes, his cheeks flushed as he turned to look at Marek Tyll, who continued haranguing the crowd from his perch atop the memorial. “Deserter,” he whispered, just loud enough for them to hear. “And he dares to stand on a war memorial.”

Conlan turned from Villius to Marek Tyll and back again. The preacher had to be a deserter; either that or he knew someone who had been on the field of battle. Did he fight with us in the circle? Conlan examined the minutiae of the man’s features. Was he a sword brother, even for a little while? Marek Tyll did not look familiar, but Conlan doubted that he would remember most of the men who had joined the remnant of his cohort to protect the standard of the Third.

“You recognise him?” Conlan asked Jonas.

Jonas shook his head. “Don’t reckon he’s from the Third. Deserter scum.”

Villius, his face set in anger, took a step towards the memorial. Realising the danger Conlan, quickly grabbed his arm to hold him back. “No, Proctor.”

Villius turned and looked at Conlan’s hand on his arm, his lips pursed, a frown creasing his forehead.

“Villius, think.” Conlan felt a flash of fear as Marek Tyll’s gaze swept across them, but his eyes did not linger, even though they stood out like sore thumbs in their blue legionary cloaks. Conlan gripped Villius’s arm tighter. “Proctor, this is not the time. This is not what we are here for.”

Villius stared at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. They resumed their slow progression through the crowd.

“The Lord Terran has spoken to me!” Marek Tyll shouted, his voice loud even as they distanced themselves from his fervour. “This world is in need of cleansing, and I am his instrument. Join me, for we are the chosen! On the day of purging those who follow the way will be spared to begin the world anew. As he has proclaimed to me, so shall it be!”

The man is mad , Conlan thought, looking back to see Marek Tyll receive a shout of adulation from the crowd. He glanced at Jonas and wondered if his devout friend was drawn to Tyll’s manic preaching. The look of disgust on Jonas’s face told Conlan everything he needed to know. Jonas might believe that the gods had visited them in battle, but clearly he was not driven to a similar frenzy by his faith.